


A Time of Fortune

by azryal



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Fix-It, M/M, Missing Scene, Prayer, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I try to answer two questions, simultaneously.</p><p>What the hell was Ragnar doing the whole time Athelstan was wandering around, drugged and lost and lonely? </p><p>and</p><p>What the hell happened after we cut away from Athelstan and Thyri?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Time of Fortune

When Ragnar fled his family, he’d had no intention of finding a woman.

He’d wanted no part of it this time. No part of the decadence, and the desperate, addled intoxication rampant around him. His heart was filled with pain and his head full of hornets. He wanted quiet and peace and there was nowhere to find that now but the temple. So he’d stumbled out into the feast and flesh, seeking only comfort…

…only to come upon Athelstan, dazed and wandering.

And so transparently happy to see Ragnar that he felt his heart split into a third, broken piece.

He’d stared at Athelstan, felt fury first, then longing, and then profound misery. His eyes filled with what his heart spilled and he fled. Cowardly, true, but what was he to do? If he stayed he would touch, if he touched he would taste, and to taste now would undo everything.

He found himself in the temple, at last. The priests were unobtrusive, silent in their alcoves unless called. The wooden edifice of Odin was also silent, even when he pressed his ear to its rough surface and shouted the god’s name. He looked at it, struggled to make sense, and found he could not. He felt carried away in a flood, riding a wave that would only take him to deep water. To drown.

“It’s wrong!” he cried, falling to his knees. “It’s all wrong! So far from what should be…”

There was a soft sound, the rustle of cloth, and a voice next to him said, “Perhaps your question would be answered if you asked another.”

Ragnar looked up into the face of a younger man. He bore the paint of a priest, but his eyes were concerned, his demeanor gentle. “What?”

“The gods all have their predilections. If Odin will not provide, it is permissible seek another.”

“I am sworn to Odin. I am descended from his blood.”

The priest smiled. “Odin has a wife.”

Ragnar had not considered this. “Frigga?”

“She spins your thread. Have you never spoken to her?”

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t know how.”

“How would you speak to your mother?”

Ragnar felt more tears gathering and did not bother to hide them.

“She is in the clouds and she waits for you.”

And then he left Ragnar there.

Wiping his face, Ragnar stood and walked out into the night.

 

*****

 

 

It felt like a long time that Ragnar stood amidst the trees. He could hear the sounds of revelry behind him, but it was only a rushing, ephemeral din, far away from him. Head tilted, eyes on the tops of the trees and the pricks of light beyond, he dwelled on his heart’s ruin. He stared until his neck ached, then rested against a tree and tucked his chin to his chest.

“Frigga,” he said, voice pointed at his boots as if he were being chastised. “I have not…”

“It is not easy, speaking of such things.”

After another moment of contemplating his toes, he slid down the trunk of a tree and rested his head against the bark. “I have not asked for more than a man would want. I wanted a wife, sons, home. I was given a fine, lusty wife, a strong son, and a daughter who blooms into beautiful summer, even now. I want to keep my family safe and give them good things. I have an earldom now, and wish the same for all in my care.”

“But I never asked more than I could _earn_ , through my own works, with my own hands.”

He scowled, feeling petty and sour.

“I mean to say, I had prayed for sons and gold and a life of...I know not what. I am rarely content with your blessings. With anyone’s. My spirit always hungers for new and strange, and _more_. And though I sometimes feel I could sail until my hull breached upon a new shore, for want of peace, I know that my discontent would rattle and rage within me. It would besiege me until I sought battle, or knowledge, or merely people with thoughts not my own.”

He took a deep long breath. “I have known such peace three times in my life. The births of my children sated my hunger. Holding their tiny bodies in my hands quieted me, and seeing to them has taught me much of patience. I sought another son, as I was foretold, hoping for that stillness once more. Yet…”

The stars above waited, without rebuke.

“Yet the peace I seek already exists. It walks and talks and breathes and smiles at me. It makes me laugh and makes me angry. It makes me think new thoughts daily, without ship and sail. Without troubled birth or battle rage. It makes me think in new ways, and this has eased the lust for new and more. I contrived to keep that peace. To grasp it to me whether it be Odin’s will or no.”

Here was the heart of his question, the root of his sorrow.

“Is this why my son was taken from me?”

His eyes had threatened tears since morning and now they gathered, falling fast and plentiful.

“Did I cause this to keep him close?” Ragnar stood and began to pace. “I have thought it, more than once. I have lived and breathed this question since I returned home and saw his face…”

A face filled with such sorrow, blue eyes downcast as he relayed news of death.

“I was angry with him for telling me. I called him worthless and weak, as if he could take up arms and defeat Death. I made him miserable and when that made me feel worse, I turned my anger on my wife. She…she did not deserve that. I still burn with fury, but at _myself_ , for I may have driven her from me forever now.”

Wiping at his face, he looked once more at the sky.

“If I have, I accept that. I will release her with warm heart and many blessings. She is a fine woman and should have a husband with a full heart to give her. My heart,” he paused, grimacing as he clutched his chest. “My heart is no longer fully hers, and she knows. I think she knew before I did. She tried and, like the graceless beast I am, I _punished_ her for it.”

Ragnar pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and dropped to his knees. “And now I punish him, too, by honoring him with death. I seek to atone for my selfish mistakes by giving him as my sacrifice. But I can’t do it, Mother, and I don’t know how to undo what I have wrought.”

He stayed on his knees and raised his head. “Odin has no words for me. He will not answer my call to help or hinder. Please, Mother. Please guide me. Please help me.”

 

*****

 

Ragnar ran through the tents and fires, searched among the dancers, and intruded upon those pursuing their pleasures. He’d been amongst the trees and stars for so long his knees hurt. Instead of hornets his mind heard the chiming of temple bells. Time was running out.

He saw Leif, standing alone and silent, his head tilted towards the sky. A position Ragnar himself had held on the steps of the temple entrance. “Leif!” he cried, absurdly grateful to find him. “Have you seen…?”

“Athelstan?”

Surprised, Ragnar looked more closely at his friend. “Yes.”

The man glanced towards the ritual tent. “He is there. With Thyri.”

Something froze in Ragnar’s chest. It couldn’t be his heart, for that had already shattered.

“They only just entered.”

Ragnar blew out a breath.

Leif gripped his shoulder. “I have heard much of falling and breaking tonight, Ragnar. I told Athelstan that the gods would hold him should he need help, but they have room in their hands for many. Let yourself be held and break no more.”

There was no denying Ragnar’s confusion. He stared at Leif in much the same way he had initially stared at the priest, alarmed that what he’d thought secret was present for all to see. He scowled and tried to shake off Leif’s grip.

“Don’t be angry, Ragnar. Against All Father’s wishes, our weaves are being undone, the loom rethreaded. It would confuse any man.” He held Ragnar there for a moment longer, looked hard into his eyes and nodded. Then he let go, and went back to staring up at the trees.

Undone? Impossible.

Leif did not look at him. “She who spins the threads decides the weave, Ragnar. And even Odin cannot have a woman’s wisdom, for all he wishes it.”

Answers came, all at once, and Ragnar staggered as he left him there. His feet went without consent to his own tent. He dropped down beside his pack, tore open the drawstring and shoved his hand to the bottom. His fingers found what they sought and quickly closed around it. Hurried, he shoved it into his tunic and turned to go.

Lagertha and Gyda were curled up together in their pallet, heads close, glowing softly in lamplight. Lagertha’s eyes were open, peering at him through tangled bits of Gyda’s hair. He gave her a soft smile and the corners of her eyes crinkled in response. Careful not to rouse his daughter, Ragnar bent close to his wife’s ear. “I’m sorry. I have erred in many things, but not this. She is as beautiful as you.”

“What have you been doing?” Lagertha whispered.

Instead of the anger he’d previously felt, there was a surge of affection and protectiveness. “Praying to Frigga.” He huffed a bit of laughter at her surprise. “I will explain in the morning. I have to fix something first, and time grows short.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Good, but do it right or everyone will know it your work.”

Woman’s wisdom, indeed.

Ragnar dropped a kiss to Gyda’s forehead, then to Lagertha’s lips, and left silently.

 

 ***** 

 

The tent doors were not tied. Ragnar swept them aside and entered, breath and words stolen by the sight before him.

Athelstan stood bare as a babe. His skin would not take the sun’s rays and so it gleamed soft and white in the light. Before him stood Thyri, slim and pretty and still no match for what she held in her hands.

What she kissed.

It was a small, gentle kiss he’d interrupted. Ragnar could see that. Married and a widow within one turn of the moon, and she still didn’t know how to kiss like a woman. He felt a moment’s pity, for she would not learn that pleasure here, on this night.

“My lord!” she gasped, dropping to the floor to find her dress.

Athelstan turned slowly, still dazed, half-smiling and half-fearful. “Ragnar,” he whispered.

The air in the tent was stifling, suddenly so hot and dense that Ragnar could not catch his breath. He did not even glance at Thyri as she pulled the dress up her body. “You may go, Thyri. I will finish.”

She glanced between them, saw that she bore the attention of neither man, and sighed. Without a word, she bent her knee and bowed her head. Ragnar tied the doors closed behind her.

“What are you doing?” Athelstan asked, soft and uncertain. His hands, crossed over his nethers, were shaking.

Ragnar unhitched his belt and let it fall. He pulled his tunics over his head and dropped them. “I made a mistake, Athelstan.”

Eyes wide, Athelstan was a picture of innocence. “ _You_ , Ragnar?”

Caught off guard by the jest, Ragnar paused. “Mind your tongue, priest.”

“If you wish.”

Tilting his head, he narrowed his eyes and let them sweep Athelstan’s body. “And if I do not?”

He heard the click when the other swallowed and watched as he lowered his hands. “You must…mind it for me.”

Licking his lips, Ragnar closed the distance between them. “Athelstan…” he began but found a finger over his mouth.

“Don’t, please. Just…just kiss me, Ragnar.”

It happened too quickly, for it would be delight just to remember Athelstan’s face as Ragnar’s fingers wrapped in the loose strands of his hair and pulled. Athelstan followed and Ragnar…finally, _finally_ …had his mouth. There was wine and ale on his breath, bitter mushroom beneath it, a potion of temporary madness and deceitful freedom. Regret would threaten when the sun shone on the morrow, but now there was tongue and teeth and spit and sweat and the soft sounds Athelstan made in his throat.

There was tugging at the lacings of his trousers and then they loosened, fell to the tops of his windings. Athelstan followed once more when Ragnar pushed, and they lowered to the rugs together. Their bodies were perfectly made to fit against each other, each dip and valley of Athelstan matching the swell and surge of Ragnar.

There was so much to explore; the soft, dark tufts beneath Athelstan’s arms, the bend of his elbow, the crease of his thigh. Ragnar’s mouth found every spot, every nerve, sparking cries and groans at each new touch. He nursed at a stiff pink nipple, reddening and plumping it before moving to the other. Athelstan moaned, hands cradling his head as he nipped and sucked, thumbs stroking the skin behind his ears. The moan cut off in a startled gasp when Ragnar reached between them and took both of their cocks in one hand. He raised his head to kiss Athelstan again and he thrust, slow at first, to show Athelstan the way. When he felt the answer, the roll of hips and the slide of flesh, he raced ahead. His tempo was easily matched, and when Athelstan’s fingers closed over his, the next blissful cry was his own. 

Athelstan was pushing up with his whole body, spirit given over fully to its desires. His pitch and volume rising as his hips quickened and jerked. Ragnar propped up on his elbow to stare down at his face, determined to watch. And remember.

Brows drawn together, mouth open, hair curling and sticky with sweat and that lovely white skin gone red with lust, Athelstan was Freyr incarnate. Such pleasure it was for Ragnar to feel his panting breaths across his throat. What joy it gave him to watch Athelstan seize, to feel his body stutter and shake beneath him as he rode the winds of his ecstasy. The satisfaction of hot seed spilling over his hand, slicking the way as he thrust against their twined fingers, sent him to his own heady climax.

Reeling, he dropped his weight atop the other, smearing their come between them. He spread it on Athelstan’s face when he gripped it to kiss. Athelstan was still making soft, whimpering sounds, but his hands were on Ragnar’s cheek and they left traces of seed there, too. It felt like promises being written into his skin.

And he meant to keep them.

“We have to go. Others will need the tent soon,” he whispered against Athelstan’s mouth.

Athelstan stared into his eyes, stroking his thumbs over Ragnar’s beard. “What is happening, Ragnar? I feel as though I am part of a drama, and I have no words to play my part.”

The question chilled Ragnar’s blood.

“I mean to fix that,” he said, and reluctantly pulled away. He crawled to his tunics and pawed through them, seeking and finding. He turned back to Athelstan and took his wrist. As he wrapped and tied the thong, he said, “You must wear this while we remain. _You must_. Keep it hidden, but wear it.”

Athelstan raised his hand. The silver cross shimmered where it dangled against his forearm. He was confused, alarmed by what was implicated in this command. “Ragnar…what…you wish to see me dead? Surely they will have me killed if they find me wearing this.”

“There is no death here, save sacrifice,” Ragnar answered. He met the other’s gaze, saw the doubt and fear there. “You must trust me, Athelstan. Please. I can do no more to correct my mistake. Keep this hidden in your sleeve or your palm until the time comes to let it show.”

“When will that be?”

“You will know.” Athelstan made to question, to argue, so Ragnar took his hair, fisted the curls and dragged him close. “If you have any faith left in your god, call on it now. We walk a narrow path and I need you to do as I say if you are to see home again. Please, promise me.”

Athelstan’s hands had gripped his arms to keep himself from falling into him. They tightened and he moved to kiss him, but Ragnar held him back with a tug on his hair. “I promise, Ragnar. I will do as you say,” he said, slowly, looking deep into Ragnar’s eyes.

Ragnar nodded and their mouths met once more. Still intoxicating, and Ragnar had no doubt that it was not the drink and foul plant that made his head spin, but the sweet elixir of Athelstan. When the kiss ended, Ragnar rubbed the skin beneath his hair, soothing the sting from his hold. “I’m sorry, Athelstan. I’m sorry for my words and my actions. No matter what happens when the sun rises, know that I did these things because of my need for you.”

“What did you do? Ragnar?”

“You are so vital to me, so necessary, that you were the only choice I had.” Ragnar’s voice cracked and he tightened his lips. “I made it, and I’ve hated myself since.”

“Ragnar…”

Athelstan’s next words were cut off by a voice from the door. “Who bars the way? You must come out now, for there is much to do.”

“A moment,” Ragnar answered. He kissed Athelstan and kissed him again, only releasing him after the other had promised once more.

They dressed quickly and silently, and Ragnar led Athelstan out with one arm around his shoulders. He met the priest’s stare with a cocky grin. “Apologies. Some things just can’t wait.”

The priest looked at him, then at Athelstan for a long time. “The festival is over. Go to your tents.”

Ragnar ignored the quiet disapproval in his voice. “Of course.”

As he guided them away, Ragnar glanced down at Athelstan’s face and took note of his wide eyes. “The effects will wear off by the time you wake. You’ll feel a bit tired, but no worse.”

“I…it’s not the mushrooms,” Athelstan told him. He kept his voice low, as if he worried the others moving around them would hear. “You’ve given me much to think about.”

“Don’t think, Athelstan. Not now. I can speak of it no more,” Ragnar murmured, bending a little to get closer to his ear.

By the time they reached the tent, the camp was quiet. Ragnar kept a grip on his hand and went to the corner. “Gyda sleeps in my place, so I will share yours,” he whispered, and was warmed by Athelstan’s smile.

They stripped down to their smocks and Ragnar pulled Athelstan close. He pressed kisses to his lips, cheeks, and eyes. “Sleep.”

Athelstan nuzzled his throat, slipped an arm around Ragnar’s waist, and did as he said. Hearts beat together, breaths matched in rhythm, and Ragnar prayed. And prayed. And prayed.


End file.
